


No More Fast Food

by irishfino



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, it's pretty much a long poop joke, silly things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:13:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishfino/pseuds/irishfino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichabod has an adverse reaction to a known killer of noses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No More Fast Food

“Do you regret it, Crane?” Abbie asked, seguing from silence to random loaded questions rather effectively.

“Might I have a bit of context?” Ichabod asked, arching his eyebrow in both amusement and confusion. Truly women were no more changed than they had been in his time. They were still rather confusing, beguiling, demanding, and wholly feminine. Despite the trousers, of course. And the gun. Definitely the gun. On the bright side, there were far fewer frills to deal with in this day and age. And the layers. Wooing a woman and taking her home for the evening ended in five hours of undressing and fifteen minutes, if one were skilled, – and he was – of actual intercourse. But that belied the point of Abbie’s question. Yes, dear Abbie. Dear, sweet, impossibly patient Abbie. Nothing like her sister Jenny. Who may or may not have reached up and struck him on the back of his head when he smirked just a little too hard at Abbie’s former beau. How she had seen his smirk was beyond him, though she did mention something about him being predictably arrogant. Whatever that meant.

Right, yes, back to the question.

“No,” Abbie said, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Yes,” he replied, “I regret ingesting that so-called food from teco hell.”

“Taco Bell.”

“The hell part was right.”

“The dreaded demon of indigestion,” she laughed.

He huffed a breath. Yes, it was absolutely hilarious that his stomach rebelled harder and faster than the colonialists when they were unfairly taxed for tea and paper, not to mention all the other utterly terrible things the King forced upon them and this pesto abysmal was working terribly. He felt fit to die.

“If you will excuse me, I need to… speak with Wendy about… energy drinks,” he said lamely. He ignored that knowing look she had about her. He wasn’t about to announce what he was going to do. Not in front of a lady. That would be dreadfully rude.

“Call me if you need any help,” she snickered.

“Watch yourself, Miss Mills. I can be downright ornery when insulted.”

“It’s adorable.”

He made a face. He was not adorable. He was dignified. He was elegant. He was… really in need of one of those porcelain latrines.

“I shall return shortly,” he said stiffly.

Abbie waved him off. “Oh, no, take your time.”

He marched away, clutching his poor tattered dignity to his chest.


End file.
